Wednesday, July 20, 2011

when worry came to visit.

greetings, worry. like nerves, kind of... but no promise of relief after you've drank enough water and finished your song. just a feeling that does not go away with reasonable thinking, unlike nerves.

why am i worried? money. yeah, i know tuition discount, blah blah blah. this doesnt mean that i havent worked my ass off every summer since 15 in preparation for the next few years when i will be living paycheck to paycheck to cover rent, insurance, and food.

the future. girls at the campus store love to talk about weddings, of all things. the dresses, flowers, rings... not only does my honeymoon sound so much more appealing, and i would be less nervous to sing in front of 50,000 people than stand in front of everyone i know done up like a barbie in order to commit my life to one person, but i dont even know what kind of person i mesh with. i've dated a few, wished for others... and it hasn't felt remotely "right" yet. "but you've had lots of boyfriends!" yes. i have. this doesnt mean i trusted them with my heart or believed they could really love me.

my career? laugh at me, sure. but you have to settle down sometime. what is my future riding on? auditions: seeing if i fail or not. lovely. thats a great feeling. if that doesn't happen, go to grad school or find some job that will take psych majors. or lose 20 pounds, get my ass in a tanning booth, dye my hair blonde, and become a trophy wife. a viable option.

i know, i am blessed. but i hate not having control. i NEVER worry about the future. it seems futile. but today, i feel like i am losing it.

4 comments:

  1. I get this. About finding a job. You want to do what you want to do but then you actually start to think about it and get insanely freaked out because everything is so open and hard to grasp and auditions are some of the worst things humans have invented. Keep chuggin.

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  2. i like this juxtaposed with the previous one. ;)

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  3. this is like my brain.

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  4. I think the trophy wife thing sounds great.

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